


Mandatory Isn't Always Bad

by Chase



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chase/pseuds/Chase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU! Clint Barton hates his stupid mandatory psych evals his workaholic boss, Captain Steve Rogers, forces him to attend. But there's just something about Phil Coulson that he can't put his finger on. And maybe Clint starts to open up the same time Phil does. And maybe their appointments turn into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a post I found on Tumblr: AU: in which Clint’s been through more military therapists than he can count but it’s not until he’s sent to Phil Coulson, that he finds someone he can truly open up to.  
> I tweaked it a bit, but I hope you all still enjoy. C8

Clint Barton is just about to pack up his things to leave the office and the world of paperwork behind when his phone rings, his boss's number flashing across the screen. 

"Barton. Yes, Captain Rogers. I was just about to- But sir, I- No, I don't need-" A sigh and then, "Yes, sir. I'll head over right away." Cursing under his breath, Clint drops his coat and bag and moves the step and a half to the door of his cramped office. Being a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s MCRT has both its advantages and disadvantages. Like, he gets his own office. But it's tiny, stuffy, and has no windows. Or that his team gets the most high-profile cases, but that means he has to work most weekends and he hasn't had a vacation in ten years. And while he and the rest of his team sees the most action as compared to the others, it also means he has to go to a mandatory psych eval. Which his workaholic boss just told him is now a weekly ordeal. 

Clint Barton officially hates being the MCRT for the xeno related crimes unit of S.H.I.E.L.D. It's nothing but trouble. Walking down the hallway - and taking his sweet time with it - Clint heads towards the bank of elevators that will take him up to the seventeenth floor and to his mandatory shrink. His mind wanders as he makes the ten floor climb. He stops at three floors. Once because the ride is going too quickly and he wants to take as long as possible and in some sort of twisted way, he thinks if it takes him too long to get to the office, the shrink will just leave. And another two to let someone from legal on and then off. He arrives too soon for his liking. 

When he finally reaches the door to the outer waiting room, giving in after a five minute walk down the short hallway where he stopped and pondered each and every abstract painting, Clint sighs and pushes the half open door all the way inside and leans his entire upper half through the doorway, looking for all intents and purposes like a vampire waiting to be invited in. The receptionist - and why doesn't _he_ get a receptionist? - looks up and raises an eyebrow at his obvious reluctance to come inside.

"Please," she drawls. "Take a seat. Dr. Coulson will be with you momentarily." Then she goes back to flipping through what looks to be the only up to date magazine in the whole of the waiting room. Huffing, Clint scans the table and picks up the least boring magazine, hands turning pages a little more aggressively than needed. After about seven and a half minutes of reading _Martha Stewart Living_ \- Clint checked - the only other door in the room opens, and Natasha, a fellow member of his team, steps out and turns to shake the doctor's hand. He smiles what Clint assumes could be considered charmingly and says, "If you'd just head over to Miss Hill, she'll set you up with a follow up." Then he looks up and beckons Clint over to him, that same smile plastered on his face. But Clint knows that smile. And it's anything but real. 

"So," the shrink grunts as he lowers himself into the armchair left of the little table with the lamp and tissue box on it. "Let's get to know each other a bit, 'kay?" Clint has to double take, his mind occupied with thoughts of the tissue box and who would cry in here. They're a pretty hardcore branch of the government, only letting the best of the best in. Who even cries in a mandatory therapist appointment? Then he panics. Will he be required to talk about more than work? He isn't going to have to lie down on a couch and talk about his mother, is he?

"Wha?" he manages when Coulson snaps his fingers in front of face. The shrink's eyebrow is raised and his face looks no more amused than that receptionist of his on the other side of the door. 

"Mr. Barton? You here? Or do I need a certain security clearance to your thoughts?" He snorts quietly, like he's trying to make it seem like he's holding back his chuckles, but he and Clint both know neither find it very funny. 

"No, I just- I just don't do shrinks, okay?" And Clint crosses his arms and slumps in his seat, looking like a moody teenager. Coulson, face neutral, nods and shifts in his seat. 

"Well, then. Can you at least tell me why you 'don't do shrinks?'" Clint shifts his eyes from where they're tracing the pattern of the wallpaper to Coulson's hands. Well, Coulson thinks. At least that's an improvement. And that's a far as they get. Clint refuses to speak for the remaining fifty seven minutes, and walks right out of the office, not bothering to schedule a follow up. Sighing, Phil looks to his receptionist for support, only for him to get a shrug and noncommittal grunt. 

"Classy," Phil remarks, heading back into his office. Obviously, this one would require more cunning tactics to open up. And damn it if Coulson wasn't persistent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The teams gets a case and Clint gets a case of some serious goo-goo eyes.

Clint grunts as the shrill beeping of his alarm clock continues well past what should have been a reasonable amount of time. How that ancient piece of crap can continue on for fifteen minutes is beyond him. How he manages to sleep through it is a mystery far less difficult to solve. Clint Barton is not a morning person. At all. In fact, it takes him about three cups of Starbucks' strongest coffee to even feel remotely human. And that's only when he manages to get up on time. Otherwise he needs upwards of five cups of the sludge at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters to be able to perform basic functions like talking and not-dying.

This particular morning, Clint glances over at the alarm clock and grins. He has an entire hour before he needs to be at work. Hauling himself out of the soft cocoon of blankets, Clint stumbles towards his bathroom, intending on getting a quick shower in before he needs to head out and stop by the Starbucks down the block from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s building.

Starting the water and quickly stripping, Clint slides into the cramped shower stall and begins his morning routine. Humming along to Florence + the Machine, Clint soaps up and lets his mind wander as his body moves on autopilot, muscle memory allowing his hands to shampoo while his thoughts stray to the stoic and not unattractive shrink from yesterday.

'I wonder if he's single'. Clint stares at his shower wall as he tries to think back to his appointment. 'No ring, so that's hopeful. And that suit looked expensive. So either he's got a stylish girlfriend or he's gayer than a picnic basket. Maybe I should check his fingernails. Or I could casually slip it into conversation?' It's at this moment that Clint realizes he's being absolutely ridiculous.

"Clint, what the hell is wrong with you, man?" he asks, shaking the bottle of shampoo and pointing at it accusingly. He quickly finishes up and turns the water off, arm reaching out to grab a towel to dry off. Ten minutes later and he's heading out the door, tie askew and shirt only half buttoned.

He arrives at his usual Starbucks and there's a beautiful triple shot caramel latte already sitting on the counter with his name scribbled on the cup. He nods at Vanessa who giggles and waves and she puts another check next to his name on the "special people" board underneath the menu. Sometimes Clint thinks it's immensely worth it to have a regular coffee place. The fact that there's already a perfectly prepared drink ready for him every morning is like a gift from God. And the fact that he doesn't have to pay his tab until the end of the month instead of waiting on the horrendous morning rush line is another godsend.

Clint starts his day like any other; he drops his things at his desk and checks his e-mail before heading down to the in-house shooting range to let off a few rounds before the official work day starts. It's there that Steve finds him.

"Barton," he calls softly, hoping to catch the sharp shooter before the earmuffs go on and the gun starts popping. Sighing, Clint turns and walks back to the doorway Steve is poking his head through.

"Yeah, boss?" he questions, eyes drooping when he notices Steve's already geared up and holding Clint's own windbreaker and hat with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logo stamped across.

"Got a case," Steve simply replies, already heading towards the elevator that will take them both up to the main floor for Clint to grab the necessary equipment. They meet Natasha and Thor on the way back down and all four of them pile into the dingy green Crown Vic in the parking lot. The drive takes about forty five minutes up into Queens because of the typical midtown traffic, and Clint is already feeling restless squished into the backseat with the massive body of Thor. Clit takes the time the drive gives him to once again ponder the training background of Thor. No one knows, exactly. He just showed up one day with Fury's recommendation and that was that.

"KGB?" Clint asks, eyes turning up towards Thor's face to look for any reaction. He just smiles in that mysterious way and says, "Nope." Sighing, Clint goes back to looking at the window and Steve smiles in the driver's seat. Natasha turns on the radio and the soft tones of some 40's jazz song comes on. Clint can tell Natasha wants to change the station, but the content smile on Steve's face changes her mind.

They all love Steve. It's hard not to. He's just so cuddly and huggable. And it's hard to not like a guy when he's invited you to his wedding. He'll never forget the way Steve got down on one knee in the middle of the forensics lab and proposed to Tony the day DADT got repealed. Everyone was so happy, including Tony, who declared now that their relationship didn't have to be a secret, work sex was totally on the table. Of course, Steve being Steve, he spluttered, blushed, and immediately began damage control with Director Fury who was watching the happy couple from the doorway. For an ex-Navy SEAL, Steve was easily flustered around his soon-to-be hubby. But Clint just chocked that up to Steve being raised by his old-fashioned Grandma. Who, Clint is happy to say, sends him cookies every month through Steve. God, he loves that old woman. Gramma Peggy is as close as Clint will ever get to family, and he wouldn't trade her for anyone in the world.

"Glen Miller's Moonlight Serenade," Steve says as if anyone asked. Thor hums and nods, looking like remembering the name was killing him.

"Yes, Captain Jack and Rose danced to this on an invisible spaceship docked to Big Ben," he sighs, eyes closed and head swaying with the beat. Clint ignores the comment, as people are wont to do in Thor's presence. No one ever gets his references anyway.

"We're here," Steve says as he pulls up next to a taped off section of road. They all climb out of the car and head under the tape and towards where the Flushing police are standing around, visibly shaken. Steve walks up to who looks to be in charge and flashes his badge, beckoning Clint and the others over. The sergeant lets out a relieved sigh and calls his men over to leave and let the S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives work. Once they're gone, Steve calls the group over from where they're setting up the equipment.

"All right. We've got two bodies. One human, one alien. Clint," and immediately Clint's head snaps up. "I need to you start a perimeter. Find any security cameras and get them wiped. Send Tony the coordinates and he can do it remotely. I want all evidence of him gone.

"Natasha, I need you to canvas the area. Question everyone. Find any and all witnesses. We need to contain the situation and divert their assumptions. Tell them, I don't know," and here he peers behind him to get a look at the xeno. "Tell them it was a mugging gone bad." The xeno, a clorapiflia, looks human enough except for it's forked tongue, ashy-gray skin, and reflective eyes. When they die, their pores secrete a substance similar to honey, which is probably why S.H.I.E.L.D was called in.

"Thor, I need you to check all the surrounding areas. The local LEOs got the call around six, and judging by the secretions on that xeno, he was probably dead an hour before that. These guys don't usually travel solo. They're in small packs of no less than three but no more than six. I want all of them detained for questioning. Make it a ten block radius. They won't have gone far. Not without blessing one of their own." Thor nodded and headed off with purpose, Clint and Natasha right behind him. Steve waited about two minutes before the M.E. truck pulled up and Peter scrambled out of the back with Dr. Banner's med bag in his hands.

"Bruce," Steve called, beckoning the coroner over. He nodded and smiled at Peter who was struggling to get the gurney out of the back of the truck and rolled over to the bodies. Peter smiled back and waved before collapsing under the heavy weight of the gurney. Steve shook his head and waited patiently for Bruce to check the human before moving over to the xeno.

"Clorapiflia," he murmured. "Adolescent. Male. Died approximately...three to four hours ago. All right. I'm done here. I'll know more at the lab." Bruce stood and dusted his trousers off and turned to Steve.

"Cause of death?" he asked, looking over the bodies lying in the alley behind the Dunkin' Donuts.

"No idea," he replied. At Steve's doubtful look, he said, "No, seriously. No apparent wounds, no discoloration around the eyes or mouth. I'll have to take a better look when I get him on a slab." Steve sighed and picked up the camera from it's case and began taking pictures before Peter and Bruce moved the body to examine it later at their discretion. When he was done, he helped Peter load the bodies into bags and onto the gurney.

"Hey, dad?" he asked, face downcast and shy. Steve rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe it only took Peter three weeks to start calling him 'dad' but whenever Peter even thinks about Gwen, he gets all shy and schmoopy.

"Yes, Peter?" he says instead of the millions of things running through his head. Most of them revolving around the words 'man up.' But he silently puts aside those thoughts and concentrates on Peter.

"So, uhh. I was thinking. Would it be poss- I mean- that is- Ugh! Can Gwen come over for dinner tomorrow night?" The actual question is rushed and said with a blush, but Steve only smiles and ruffles his 'son's' hair.

"Yes, Peter. Honestly, I'm just glad we're actually getting to meet this girl you've been on about for weeks. I've been starting to doubt her existence, and Tony was beginning to think you just named your hand or something." At that, Peter turns scarlet, and Steve laughs while guiding his son to the passenger seat of the medical van and opening the door.

"Daaaaad," Peter whines. "Just because you got me this internship doesn't mean you get to embarrass me on the job." Peter pouts and climbs into the truck and Steve shuts the door behind him.

"Yeah, yeah. Just go and dissect some aliens, okay? See you at home," he calls as the truck pulls off towards the Van Wyck. Steve sighs and turns back towards the crime scene and stoops to collect some black powder off the ground and dumps it into an evidence baggie. He scans the area thoroughly and moves to pack up the little evidence they managed to collect and calls Natasha, probably close to tears interviewing potential witnesses. She says she's done and that only one person claims to have seen anything, but she manages to convince him it was only a mugging when her shirt 'accidentally' popped a button. Clint's next, and through a series of three way calls, he determines that all security cameras are wiped and replaced with looped footage. Thor's the last one he calls, but there's nothing much to report. He's already found and subdued three other xenos, and is just about done searching for any other possible targets. Steve says it's fine and he and the rest of the team will meet him at his location.

When the three of them arrive, Thor is sitting on a pile of struggling and swearing clorapiflia. He scowls and replies in their language, a series of clicks and screeches, then knocks one of them upside the head and beams when he stops wiggling. Clint laughs as Steve dials Fury's number to request a transport van. They don't leave for another thirty minutes when the van arrives to take the xenos to lock up and interrogation.

When they get back to HQ, through the Subway restaurant above ground - it's always funny to see the questioning looks of innocent civilians eating their lunches when men with suits, briefcases, and guns walk in and out of the 'employees only' door only to have a completely different set of men walk out a few minutes later. Sometimes Clint thinks that's why Fury had a Subway built above them. The faces. And maybe the free sandwiches - Clint makes a beeline for forensics and Darcy, Tony's absolutely and amazingly fabulous assistant. She always has a good story or two about crazy-ass weekends spent partying. 'Ah, to be twenty-something again,' Clint thinks as he listens to how she and her roommate Jane got kicked out of a bar when Jane, a particle physicist, started to throw drinks in the air and explain gravitational pull on something who-this-and-the-other. Even Darcy didn't know what she was rambling on about. All she knew was that they got kicked out, but she managed to snag the hot bouncer's number.

It's the end of the day before Clint knows it, and they're no closer to figuring out what happened than they were six hours ago. The black powder turned out to be a bust and Bruce still can't figure out the CoD. He's thinking it might be internal, as there are no visible wounds on either, but he has to wait on Tony and Dum-e to get back with the tox screen. With their luck, it won't be anything in the database and they'll have to go digging. There was one hair at the scene, that's giving Steve pause. It's a thick hair, similar to the Terran elephant and a color that doesn't exist on Earth. Steve thinks he remembers Thor calling it ghtfg, but he can't be sure. But, in the end there's nothing more they can do for the day, so Steve sends everyone home.

Except for Clint.

"Barton," Steve calls. Clint waves the others on, the elevator doors closing behind them. Steve just looks at Clint, and the ex-Army Ranger starts twitching like he's back in Afghanistan and perched on some outcrop of rocks in the hot sun for days on end.

"Yeah, boss?" is Clint's signature reply. His feet shuffle nervously like he's Peter and in trouble for getting a D on a test.

"I heard you gave the therapist a rough time yesterday." At that, Clint jerks and frowns. Aren't those meetings supposed to be private? Doctor-patient privilege? "And before you say anything," he continues, "it wasn't the doc that told me, but Fury. You know he gets to look at all the sessions." Clint quieted down at that, but was still stewing that someone told anyone anything. "Now, I don't really care what you tell this guy, and there isn't a single thing on this planet you could do that would make me think any less of you." And the thing about Steve Rogers - 'Captain America' - is that he's honestly telling the truth. There really isn't anything Clint could do to make Steve hate him. So he relaxes and nods.

"It's just," he huffs. "I don't do shrinks." Clint doesn't know what he was expecting, but the sharp bark of laughter isn't it.

"None of us do, Barton," he says. "Do you really think me or Thor or, God forbid, Natasha do shrinks?" At Clint's shaking head, he laughs and places his hand on Clint's shoulder. "The thing is," he starts. "We all have to do things we hate. And I know you've heard this speech before, you're almost forty. But that's the truth. None of us like going to shrinks and telling them our deepest, darkest secrets, but it's part of the job. And you're just gonna have to man up and tough it out." Steve gives Clint a crooked smile before clapping him on the back and heading towards the elevator.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to kidnap my soon-to-be husband and son and go home. You too, Barton." And just as Clint picks up his bag and jacket, Steve calls over his shoulder, "AFTER you visit the shrink. 'Night!" And just like that, Clint's world is back in that hallway with the ugly modern art and dismissive secretary. And this time, no matter what Steve says, he's not going to say a word. Not a goddamn word.


End file.
